


Grand Edelweiss Hotel

by violentvision



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Depression, I'm Bad At Summaries, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Murder, Not A Fix-It, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-First War with Voldemort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Survivor Guilt, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:29:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25287598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violentvision/pseuds/violentvision
Summary: Voldemort is dead. Taken by Death itself, some say. Sirius drowns in grief and guilt. Desperate for answers, he agrees to go on Dumbledore’s mission and finds himself in a secluded hotel, but things are not what they seem.
Relationships: Sirius Black/Harry Potter
Comments: 30
Kudos: 47





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> After binging on Harry Potter for a few months, I have decided to put some of my own ideas in writing. Sirius and Harry were a topic I wanted to explore, and after rewatching The Grand Budapest Hotel I knew I wanted to write a story centered around an old, decadent and secluded hotel.
> 
> There will be triggering themes discussed in this fic, as well as graphic descriptions of violence and explicit sex. 
> 
> I don’t have a beta currently, so if you see any mistake or typo you’d like me to correct feel free to point it out in the comments.

_1 January, 1980_  
_By Barnabas Cuffe, editor-in-chief of the Daily Prophet_

**_YOU-KNOW-WHO IS NO MORE! DUMBLEDORE REFUSES TO DISCLOSE THE IDENTITY OF THE MYSTERIOUS SAVIOUR!_ **

_Wizards and Witches all around England wake up today to a New Year, a year that, unexpectedly, began free of the terror imposed by You-Know-Who and his followers. Yes, dear reader, rejoice and celebrate! At two hours and forty-three minutes the Minister for Magic Harold Minchum called in for an emergency broadcast announcement, following the confirmation by the Department of the Magical Law Enforcement. According to the Ministry’s press release, on the evening of 31st of December, 1979, aurors were summoned to an undisclosed location by Albus Dumbledore (Headmaster of Hogwarts; Order of Merlin, First Class; Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot), who informed of a battle which had occurred shortly before, resulting in the vanquishing of the Dark Wizard known as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, as well as some of his closest followers, branded as Death Eaters._

_“We have received unquestionable proof, confirmed by our specialists in the DMLE, as well as the team of Unspeakables responsible for the investigation of You-Know-Who and his following, that the Dark Wizard in question has been, in fact, destroyed. The case is still under the investigation, and the Ministry will release full information as soon as we have all the pertinent details. For now, I believe it is safe to assume that celebrations are in order. As the current Minister for Magic I also extend my praise and honours to those who have fought and died valiantly in the last years. Their sacrifice to combat the darkness even in the worst of days shall not be forgotten.” Declared Minister Minchum in his closing statement of the Ministry’s latest press conference._

_Despite the lack of concrete official information as to what or who is responsible for the defeat of You-Know-Who, The Daily Profet’s special correspondent Rita Skeeter has managed to identify a source who participated in the battle, witnessing the events that transpired. Mr. L, who asked to not be identified in this article, confirmed that Albus Dumbledore, as well as a few remaining members of the vigilante organization known as Order of the Phoenix, ambushed the Death Eaters’ headquarters, resulting in open combat between the Light and Dark. “Most of the Order’s members were killed or incapacitated during the fight, cleary outnumbered by the Death Eaters. The Dark Lord and Dumbledore were duelling, engaging in the most high-level magic I had ever witnessed.” Recalls Mr. L., in his account of the events. “It all seemed quite hopeless, in fact. That is, up until a figure appeared from beneath an Invisibility Cloak, right next to the Dark Lord, and wasted no time in delving the surprise and final blow. I didn’t see how it happened, precisely, or what spell had been used, but I managed to witness as the Dark Lord’s face, filled with shock, crumbled and dissipated in the wind.”_

_What is the identity of our mysterious Savior? That is not known, at least for now, as they fled the battle site as soon as You-Know-Who was destroyed. “Albus Dumbledore stayed and paralyzed the Death Eaters present. As far as I could see, they were all too shocked to resist. Then he summoned the aurors and explained the situation to them.” Mr. L, who did not participate in the fight, choosing to protect his family instead, has also disclosed the list of the Order members and Death Eaters present (see list below).”_


	2. Uninvited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sirius has a lot of feelings.

Sirius Black tore his eyes away from the front page of the Prophet, rubbing his face with bruising force. He must have memorised every word of the article, with gritted teeth and cheeks stained by angry tears. It had been only a couple of hours since he was pulled out of his week-long magically induced coma, his body finally healed from the deep gaches caused by an unknown curse. 

It was around midday, and the restricted section of the Janus Thickey Ward was filled with light, seeping through the snow-dusted windows surrounding it. Sirius could hear the buzz filling Mungo’s air on every floor, someone passing through the corridor was joyfully singing the Hoggy Warty Hogwarts in a jazzy tempo, and there was a distinct smell of firecrackers wafting through the hospital wards. Sirius Black, however, was not happy.

Sure, he was supposed to rejoice and sing along with the many witches and wizards celebrating today. After all, he was arguably one of those who had sacrificed the most to live this moment, but there wasn’t an ounce of happiness, or even relief in him. However, a mixture of grief, shock and anger poisoned his blood, preventing him from seeing anything good in the current situation.

The eldest Lestrange, the Carrows, Dolohov, Crabbe, Karkaroff and Rosier were listed by the Prophet among the Death Eaters who had survived and had been arrested by the DMLE after the final battle. The Order Members’ names were not informed “to prevent retaliation”, according to the paper. Sirius felt his heartbeat falter every time he tried to list in his head the names of those who were still alive when he had been brought to Mungo’s, with his life hanging by a thread. How many of them had survived the ordeal? There weren’t too many of them to begin with, after all. Every life counted.

He would change places with any Member of the Order who had died defeating Voldemort. Gladly. And yet, there he was. Selfish. Weak. Lonely.  _ Alive. _

His thoughts were swiftly interrupted by a radiant middle-aged medi-witch who entered his separate room unannounced, sporting a brilliant gummy smile and rosy cheeks. “Mr. Black! Awake already?” She cooed with a syrupy voice, approaching his bed and casting a full-body health-screening charm on him, checking a few items in her clipboard before addressing Sirius once more. “You heard of the news, of course?” She asked, pointing at the Prophet spread atop of the lime-green bed sheets. 

The last member of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black nodded slowly, covering the paper with his hands in a possessive gesture, afraid that it would be taken away. “Is it true, then?” He croaked, voice raspy from a night of screaming and wailing, followed by a week of unuse. The mediwitch nodded enthusiastically, her lips spreading into an even wider grin. “It is! Isn’t it wonderful? You must be so happy! Sorry for the noise, we have allowed our patients to celebrate as soon as the news broke. Someone on the second floor managed to smuggle in some butterbeers and…” She gestured dismissively, suppressing a chuckle. 

While the woman ran a few extra scanning spells, checking for lasting damage and remnants of the curses that had been casted at him, Sirius flipped through the remaining Prophet pages, eyes lingering on the capitalized titles.

**_WHO IS THE MYSTERIOUS SAVIOR? RITA SKEETER FOLLOWS TIPS_ **

**_DEPARTMENT OF MAGICAL LAW ENFORCEMENT CONDUCTING ARRESTS_ **

**_WIZARDS IN YORK CELEBRATING SET FIRE TO A BARN_ **

**_LEADERS OF THE INTERNATIONAL WIZARDING COMMUNITY COMMENT YOU-KNOW-WHO’S DEMISE_ **

**_THE DAILY PROPHET TO ORGANIZE A MEMORIAL FOR WAR HEROES - SEND US YOUR STORY_ **

**_ALBUS DUMBLEDORE BACK IN HOGWARTS - EXPECTS THE CLASSES TO RESUME IN SEPTEMBER_ **

**_ORDER OF THE PHOENIX: HEROES OR VIGILANTES?_ **

“All done, dear. You seem to be recovering well.” The mediwitch praised, offering Sirius a vial of Pepper-Up. “Healer Glassby will come by a bit later to run a few more intensive check-ups, just to make sure your magic has fully recovered.” She paused, waiting for the man to finish his potion and nod in understanding “In the meanwhile, you have a couple of visitors, isn’t it great? I’ll let them know you’re awake and ready for them!” The kind woman giggled before waddling out of the room, only to return shortly, accompanied by two figures.

The round, soft and blushing face of Alice Longbottom contrasted strangely with the mess of scars and wrinkles of Alastor Moody’s expression. The two aurors entered the room, and Mad Eye shuffled quickly towards the single wooden chair by the bed. “Sirius!” Alice exclaimed, rushing towards him and laughing. “Thank Merlin you’re awake!”

Sirius made an attempt at tugging his lips into a smile, but was obviously unsuccessful, earning a scoff from Alastor, who rubbed his shoulder with a rough, calloused hand. “Told you this one was tough! How are you feeling, lad?” Black met his mentor’s stare for a moment, before turning away from the piercing gaze of his magic eye. 

“Is it over, then?” He whispered, feeling the mattress dip as Alice sat carefully beside him. Sirius felt the corners of his eyes prickle. Alastor confirmed with a short affirmation and he let out a large puff of breath before biting his lips and turning again to face the aurors. “Why didn’t you wake me up yesterday? I could have helped! Could have fought with you!” His voice was still frail and breaking at the edges, his fingers twisting the bedsheets, trembling with rage. “How could you? You know that I had nothing left anyway!”

That was a low blow, of course. But he was running low on empathy, and there was simply too much hurt in him to allow for a rational discussion. Sirius had opened his mouth to regurgitate some more of the painful accusations he had been saving when a quiet sob interrupted him. Alice had hidden her pretty face in her shaking hands, muttering “Sorry, sorry” between her hiccups. 

“I know you had a right, just as all of us did, lad.” Alastor’s voice was grave, and his hand was once again running soothing circles on Sirius’s shoulder, the soft gesture uncharacteristic and jarring. It sounded as if he was carefully choosing his words. “Yesterday you were still regrowing your lungs, you know? Some nasty curses you took. Fought like a true hero. Potter would’ve been proud.” Black shivered and his expression hardened at the mention of his best friend. James can’t be proud, right? James is dead.

_ Dead, dead, dead _

The word echoed in his mind, searching for a shred of evidence to the contrary. It stumbled instead on the memory of glassy eyes and horrifying shrieks. 

“It was Dumbledore’s decision, Sirius” Alice whispered, her cheeks now splattered with tears and red spots, mouth quivering. “We didn’t know about anything until we were summoned yesterday morning to prep for the mission. He said we needed to move quickly, to avoid spooking him off.” Black felt guilty, watching her explain how it all went down. Whenever she stumbled on an explanation, Moody would supplement her story with short, quippy remarks. Dumbledore had transported himself and five of the Order members to the edges of Malfoy’s Manor, and trapped them all inside the wards. 

“Of course, as soon as we arrived, we were attacked. Some of them tried to flee the Manor, but Dumbledore’s spell prevented them from leaving the premises.” Alice recounted, listing herself and Frank among those present during the operation. The Prewett brothers were there, as well as Dorkas, Moody and Vance. Luckily, Frank had survived, sustaining some injuries in the battle. He and Vance were both recovering in Mungo’s. “Fabian and Gideon fought together against five of them, including Dolohov.” Moody explained, gesturing somewhere to his right “Fabian was still breathing when he was brought here after the fight. Hit with the same curse as you.” 

A flower of pain, blossoming in his heart and spreading its vines through his bones. 

Cousin Bella’s cold cackle as she held him under  _ Crucio. _

The heat of the  _ Fiendfyre _ engulfing the small cabin.

Sirius trying to raise his wand, crying for his dead friend.

Dolohov’s stange, heavy accent when he shouted “ _ Evancuore” _ !

A sudden emptiness in his body, before Sirius began gargling blood.

Darkness.

_ Hey, Padfoot, coming to join us already? _

  
  
  


“ _ Evancuore _ ” Black whispered, staring at his knuckles. Moody’s grumbly confirmation jolted through his body, it’s vibrations vibrating through the auror’s arm towards his spine, grounding him. 

“Yea, that’s the one.” Alice nodded, timidly. “Took the Healers forever to figure it out. You were lucky that your heart stayed in place. Poor Fabian’s went out with the rest, halfway.” The Prewett brothers were older than Sirius. Confident. Smart. Charming. Alive. And now they weren’t.

“They had a sister…” the thought slipped off his lips before he realized, and Sirius bit his lip. He had a brother too, at least until October. Or maybe he had lost him as soon as he ran away. Black chanced a glance at Alastor, feeling suddenly small. “What about Dorkas?”

“Murdered by Him. Protecting Dumbledore.” Fulfilling her mission. Some part of Sirius felt jealous at Moody’s words. He sank back into his pillows, turning away from his visitors. “Vance is good, though” Longbottom offered, trying to lighten the mood. There was a trickle of wetness making its way down his cheekbone, soaking into the pillow.

“He is gone now. Definitively. Dumbledore is certain.” The words made Sirius hold his breath. Remembering what he had seen that day always brought nausea along. Red eyes searing into him. Lily crumpled by the tree like a rag doll. He heard Moody clear his throat before continuing “Saw it myself. Couldn’t believe it for a second.”

“Did you see who it was? The Savior everyone’s talking about?” Sirius asked hesitantly. Silence stilled the atmosphere in the room, and Sirius turned to gauge the expression on the aurors faces. Alice was pale, but her lips showed a discreet smile. Mad Eye looked away. “I saw glimpses. It wasn’t very clear. Lad ran out of the manor under a cloak. Holding a sword.”

Sirius’s brows shot up his forehead as he sat up again, incredulous. “A sword? Really?” Alastor let out a lowly chuckle, winking at him. “Yeah, a bloody sword. Ran out there. Got close to Voldemort and just sank it into the bastard’s back.” The older mentor mimicked the motion with a smug expression. “Like that.”

  
  


“You-Know-Who just turned to him then, all shocked. Mouth gaping.” Alice continued, happy to somewhat change the topic. “And then the guy hit him with an  _ Expelliarmus _ and He just started… crumbling.” The blonde girl trailed off, biting her lips. “A bit like a dandelion when you blow on it, you know?” Sirius nodded slowly, trying to visualize it.

“Or like ashes” Moody suggested. “The Eaters collectively lost their bloody minds. Crouch Junior started sobbing and searching the ground.”

“Crouch Junior?” The name somewhat surprised him. Sirius tried to remember the pale and shy boy with a sulky expression from his youth. “James and I threw a dung bomb at him once-” Again, the thought materialized itself uninvited. 

_ Can’t stop thinking about me, huh, Pads? I guess I’m just that charming. _

_ Shut up. _

Sirius swallowed hard. “So none of them attempted to flee?” He could imagine that at least a few Death Eaters would be cowardly enough to escape as soon as they realized that they were on the losing team. The idea also gave him a morbid sense of hope, that at least he could go after a few of them, hunt them down like a bloodhound, tear at their throats with his bare hands.

“There were some who didn’t come out of the Manor to fight. The Malfoy couple, of course. They are bargaining for a plea deal.” Moody scoffed, making his opinion on Lucius and cousin Cissy clear. “They might even get it, depending on what information they are willing to offer. Rumor has it that they passed on some information to Dumbledore, along with Snape, but I wasn’t included in that.”

Sirius nodded, noticing the small notes of jealousy in the auror’s tone. He, too, hated to be the last to be informed of things. “Anyone else?”

There was another pregnant pause while Alice and her mentor exchanged glances. Sighting, she turned to him with her brows knit together in concern and pity. “Pettigrew was dead when we arrived. He had the Mark on his arm.” She looked almost apologetic as she spoke, voice faltering.

Bastard.

_ He’s always been a coward, Pads. We shouldn’t have dragged him along into the Order. _

_ Shut up, James. That was your call. You knew he would follow you like a puppy on a leash. _

_ Just like you did? _

  
  
  


Sirius went silent, withdrawing back into his thoughts. Alice made a few more attempts at a conversation, but was soon interrupted by a knock at the door, followed by the arrival of a tall, lanky and greying Healer carrying a small briefcase. 

“Good afternoon! I’m Healer Glassby. Mr. Black, how are you feeling?” Both aurors quickly got up to their feet and Moody informed that he had to get back to the DMLE to finish a report, and Alice would go and stay at Frank’s bedside to allow Mrs. Longbottom some rest. Sirius did not say goodbye.


	3. Spells, paperwork and firewhisky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad news, good news.

Healer Glassby’s check up ended up being quite different from the one he had earlier. Its goal, as it had been explained to Sirius, was to figure out if there was any long lasting trace of the curse still coiled around his entrails. “I will now ask you to perform a few simple spells to see if your magic has been affected in any way. We had to reconstruct several organs, bones and complex tissues inside you, Mr. Black.” The Healer’s voice was monotonous and detached, and Sirius cringed at the description.

“Do you have my wand? I haven’t seen it since I woke up.” He asked, feeling suddenly anxious and vulnerable. To his relief Glassby nodded, before pulling a wooden box out of his briefcase. “Ebony, sixteen inches, dragon heartstring, correct?” Sirius almost yelped in response, grabbing the box quickly and ripping the lid off. There it was, glinting dully in the golden light seeping through the window.

Wand in hand, Sirius attempted a simple _ Lumos _ , which worked according to expectations, producing a bright luminosity. He turned to the Healer, asking what else he would like to see.

“Are you able to produce a  _ Patronus _ , mr. Black?” Sirius acquiesced and closed his eyes for a moment, concentrating on a good enough memory, before shouting the incantation. A thin veil of mist shot out of the wand’s tip, dissipating quickly into the air. Sirius bit his lips and murmured apologetically “Haven’t been able to produce a corporeal one for a few months already.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Black. This is quite common considering the latest… err… political climate.” The Healer smiled faintly before returning to his usual stoic expression. “Now, can you cast a  _ Protego _ for me?”

Sirius scoffed at the request. Of course he could cast it, he held top grade in protective and healing spells during his auror training, besting even James. With a flourish, he waved the wand and said “ _ Protego _ ”

Nothing.

Nothing at all.

As if his wand was no better than a butter knife.

He looked at it stupidly, before attempting again. And again. Variations of the spell failed too, as if his wand was simply refusing to channel the magic needed. Frustrated and panicked, Sirius laid his wand aside and attempted to cast the protection spell wandlessly. He had managed to do so a few times in training, and knew that he was capable if he just focused enough.

The Healer, thank Merlin, kept silently watching without interrupting his attempts. Teeth worrying his lower lip nervously, temples beaded with swear from concentration, he tried to cast  _ Protego _ once again. Sirius felt a prickle of magic at his fingertips, and slowly opened his eyes, hoping to see, to feel the spell he had produced. Still, there was nothing. His middle finger stung sharply and he winced, watching a small, shallow cut line the phalange.

His heart began smashing itself against his sternum, lungs burning. Sirius quickly scanned his brain to figure out when was the last time he had cast a protective spell. 

_ Can’t remember, can you, Pads? When was the last time you cared enough to protect yourself?  _

“Mr. Black, can you describe the last time you have successfully performed a _ Protego _ spell?” Glassby inquired curiously, retrieving a clipboard from his briefcase. Sirius shook his head, rubbing his cheek. 

“I don’t know. Can’t remember, actually. I know I had performed it quite often before-” 

Before James. 

“Before a friend was killed.” He finished, and the Healer hummed in understanding, scribbling in his clipboard with a narrow, purple quill. 

“Quite uncommon. And you work as an auror, yes?” Sirius nodded again, face pale as he began casting several spells around him to check if he could manage it. As it was, he effortlessly made his pillow levitate, as well as an empty potion bottle on his bedside table. He transfigured a flower someone had left him into a worm and back, enlarged his quilt and filled a glass with water from his wand. Everything seemed to be working just fine, except the protection spells. In fact, any kind of protective spell he attempted failed, and some of them caused additional cuts and nicks on his fingers and palms. 

Healing spells, it seemed, were failing as well, no matter how hard he tried. Mercifully, Glassly produced a vial of  _ Dittany _ and handed it to him. “I’ve studied a few cases of selective magic loss before, but never encountered one in my life. Since they are very rare, there aren’t any concrete theories as to why it happens.”

Sirius was now filled to the brim with anxiety. “I don’t know about protective spells, but I was able to perform healing spells just last week!” His fingers were now gripping the bed sheets around him, shallow breaths making his vision swim at the edges. 

“Really?” Sirius nodded emphatically and Glassly shrugged. “Well, as I’ve said before, not much is known about selective magic loss. Best I can do is recommend that you keep trying, perhaps in your case it’s temporary.” With a gesture of his wand, the Healer’s instruments flew back inside of his briefcase, which shut close with a satisfying click.

“Mr. Black, you are free to go. Your clothes and personal items can be found on the ward’s entrance desk. I believe Miss Strout has it in her possession.” The Healer gave another short smile to him “I would also recommend plenty of rest and a healthy dose of physical activity.” He sighed, throwing the young man a sympathetic glance before exiting the room. 

Sirius was left alone with his wand. 

There were still sounds of excitement in the corridors outside. For a moment he considered visiting Frank Longbottom, but he dismissed the thought. He couldn’t face his friend now, not after failing to be there when the Order needed him the most. Instead, he picked up his clothes from the entrance desk, waving at the gummy and giggly mediwitch that had treated him earlier. 

After getting dressed and checking his pockets for any missing items (money pouch, auror badge, flask of Dittany and his penknife) he rushed towards one of the public fireplaces to floo to the Atrium in the Ministry of Magic. 

It seemed that the celebratory climate was present here, as well. There was confetti scattered around the fountain, and large silk banners hanging as far as the eyes could see displayed congratulatory phrases in glittering lettering. People were singing and dancing in groups, hugging each other and sharing enthusiastic greetings. Sirius rushed towards the lifts, glad that there was no other passenger besides him, and, once he arrived at the DMLE floor, hurried towards the Auror Office.

The second floor was eerily quiet, and the Auror office was no different. Most of the cubicles were empty, and there was no sign of celebration taking place. Kingsley was at his desk, diligently completing a report, and lifted his head to Sirius once he had reached his cubicle. “Back to work already? Moody told us you just woke up today!”

Sirius shrugged, taking a look around himself to see if there was anyone else besides the two of them lingering around. He had gotten used to ignoring his body’s complaints over the years. “The Healers say I’m mostly fine. I’ll have time to lick my wounds later. Why is it so quiet around here?”

Shacklebolt stifled a yawn and filed his report away in the top drawer of his mahogany desk before beckoning Sirius a bit closer and casting a silencing charm around his cubicle. “Haven’t Moody told you about Barty Crouch Junior?” Black nodded, sitting on the edge of the desk gingerly “Well, papa Crouch isn’t happy. When we brought his son in for questioning he threw a fit. Went straight to the Minister’s office. Scrimgeour has been called in as well. Probably will substitute Crouch as the Head of the Department tomorrow.”

Sirius listened, playing with a loose thread on his sleeve. He had never really cared much for office politics, and between Rufus and Barty he really had no real preference. “Moody?” He asked, noting that the senior auror wasn’t around.

“He’s in one of the interrogation rooms. Wants to finish his rounds of questioning today. The Wizengamot is pushing for a speedy trial.” Shacklebolt explained, pointing at the filing cabinet. “I just finished processing my quota. Alastor is running late because of his visit to Mungo’s.”

At that, Black found himself burning with curiosity. “Who did you get?” He asked, reaching for the filing cabinet in search of the case report. He wondered if there was still time to participate in the interrogations, to be useful in some way. Kingsley graciously let him grab the top parchment binder.

“Karkarov and Rosier. Igor sang like a pretty bird, was eager to share anything that could get him a plea deal. Promised to testify and give a detailed list of His followers”. Sirius nodded, glancing through the file to see if anything was worthy of his attention. A name stood out like a sore thumb.

“Rookwood?” He gasped, incredulously. Kingsley gave out a grave confirmation. “Imperioused?”

“Unfortunately, no, as far as we know. He and his team were detained this afternoon, and will be questioned first thing tomorrow morning. We need to gauge the size of the leak before the Ministry decides to brush it all under the carpet.” Sirius hummed, closing the file. “And Rosier? Said anything useful?”

A bitter smile spread on Kingsley’s face, showing a row of perfectly white teeth. “No such luck. Bastard is completely silent. We suspect he has made an Unbreakable Vow, got to be careful around it.” He sighed, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his palms. “There’s lots of pressure for us to wrap it up quickly, though.”

Sirius was about to ask him something else when they heard the backdoor swing, revealing a purple-faced, sweaty and disheveled Mad-Eye, who entered the office carrying a big box of interrogation equipment. “What the bloody hell are you doing here, Black? You’re supposed to be on bedrest!” He dropped the box noisily in his cubicle before approaching them in Kingsley’s space.

“The Healer told me I could go. Said I could finish recovering at home.” Sirius explained, staring at his mentor defiantly. Moody fixed his magic eye on him in stern consideration, and when Shacklebolt asked him how the interrogation went he took a while before responding.

“That bastard is in shock, I think. Tried to crack him the normal way but he just kept muttering crap about his beloved Dark Lord. Asked about you, Black. Apparently you’ve really made a number on them, killing your cousin like that.” Sirius inhaled sharply at that, trying to keep his reactions at bay. He hadn’t realized before that Bellatrix was dead. He remembered managing to grab his auror badge before passing out, which must have portkeyed him directly to St. Mungo’s.

“It worked, then.” His fingers grazed over his chest, feeling the thick wool of his cloak. Moody’s eye focused on his movement, and nodded approvingly. “Good job.” He didn’t say anything else, didn’t chastise Sirius for his use of dark magic. “Come, lad. Let’s celebrate. For once, we have plenty of reasons. Kingsley, you’re also invited.”

Shacklebolt stood up, tidying his desk a bit before turning to them. “Leaky?”

For a moment, Sirius tensed up. He wasn't ready to see so many faces, didn’t want to sulk at a crowded pub or risk getting himself in an argument. But Moody seemed to be thinking the same thing, because he suggested his own home and they all quickly agreed that was the optimal choice.

They apparated to Moody’s house, and found an envelope laying by the fireplace, its edges slightly scorched. The eldest auror investigated its contents while Sirius and Kingsley settled themselves in the living room. 

As always, Alastor’s home was in a state of profound disarray, cluttered with magical instruments, boxes with files and confiscated dark objects, piles of books and photographs in various mismatched frames occupied every surface, and Sirius had to move a stack of rolled-up parchment to fit on the blue sofa. Kingsley struggled a bit, dislodging a large cauldron sitting on top of an old beige armchair.

“Getting comfortable already?” Moody’s voice growled, announcing his entrance. Behind him, levitating gracefully in the air, a bottle of Ogden’s and a few glasses, as well as an obsidian ashtray. The drinks poured themselves, a hefty dose two fingers thick, and flew into the hands of each wizard. Moody did not sit down.

“Well, lads.” He began solemnly, after a heavy silence endured for a few seconds “We did our jobs. We did our jobs bloody well. A lot of blood was spilled, but even more was saved, thanks to our effort and sacrifice.” Sirius shifted uncomfortably in his seat, suddenly desperate to get out of this situation. 

  
  


_ You’ve always been good at pretty speeches, Pads. Remember the one you had prepared for my wedding? _

_ Not good enough, apparently. Why am I here? _

_ Not everyone’s as willing to just ignore death and victory as you are. _

_ Doesn’t feel much like victory, Prongs. _

__

“... and the bloody stuck up politicians ignoring the fucking transparent signs of rot and decay within their ranks, only to wail like pigs when a Dark Mark floats atop of their homes, as if it’s that hard to consistently live by the rule of CONSTANT VIGILANCE!” Moody’s catchphrase woke Black up from his stupor and he focused his glance on the old auror’s face, only to realize that there was a trail of tears running down his scarred and disfigured visage. A lump formed in Sirius’s throat and he gripped his knee to avoid shaking.

“Alastor, my friend, I believe it’s time for us to drink before you curse us for witnessing your sentimentality.” Kingsley chuckled, standing up and wrapping a steady arm around Mad-Eye’s shoulders. “Aye, I agree. Let’s raise our glasses.” They did. Then, they gulped their doses, without wincing. The tension seemingly began to dissipate, and the three men settled down.

After a few rounds of Ogden, diluted by Sirius chain-smoking half a carton with trembling fingers, Moody announced that the letter he had received was from Dumbledore. “He wants us at Hogwarts the day after tomorrow. Said there will be a memorial for the Order.” Shacklebolt immediately locked eyes with Black and gestured at him with his whiskey glass, making it clear that he was intimated to be there as well.

And, as much as Sirius wished he could throw a temper-tantrum right then and there, he knew he was in no state to defy his two superiors, not when he seemingly was incapable of performing even the most basic protection spell. “Do you reckon the lad with the sword will be there as well, Moody?” The idea of a wizard wielding a sword intrigued him. He’s always had a fascination with knights of the olden days.

“Don’t know. I’ve only seen him twice before, and even then I didn’t really have a good look at him. He’s not part of the Order, though, why would he be there?” Moody mused, scratching his chin. “I didn’t even know he was there before he appeared running out of the Manor. Honestly, before yesterday I’ve always thought he was just another student.”

“Hogwarts has been closed since early June, though, why would he be at school if there weren’t any classes happening?” Shacklebolt questioned, seemingly curious as well. “I haven’t heard about him from any other member of the Order.” Indeed it all seemed perplexing, to say the least. 

“Like I said, he isn’t part of the Order. I’ve just seen a wee lad coming out of Dumbledore’s office a couple of times I was at Hogwarts on official business. I imagined he was a student orphaned by the war. You know how soft the Headmaster can be. I only recognized him the second time because he’s always made a point of not looking at me when we crossed paths. But that’s not that surprising.”

Sirius chuckled. For the unfamiliar eye Alastor’s appearance was truly shocking, and his roughness in treatment didn’t help softening the blow of first impressions. “Imagine if Moody was hired as a teacher. He would give the first-years nightmares. They would piss in their pants the first time he’d yell CONSTANT VIGILANCE at the poor lambs!”

“You’ve never complained while you were in training, Black.” Alastor muttered, sounding mildly offended. Kingsley began laughing, his deep voice vibrating around the living room. 

“Well, I’m afraid to disappoint you, my dear Mad-Eye, but you’ll never compete with my  _ Mère _ in the “hideously terrifying” department.” Sirius grinned, downing another dose of Ogden’s. The alcohol was making him pleasingly numb, his tongue slightly heavy in his mouth. “And your ugliness was never an obstacle for you to teach us properly.”

Kingsley agreed. They drank some more, until the bottle was fully dry, and their bodies felt slow and disjointed. Sirius took the floo to his flat, stumbling fully clothed into a bed that had stayed empty for more than two weeks.

Outside of his window there were still fireworks blooming in the winter night sky.


	4. Blood runes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk why, but I've made the mistake of naming Bella and Cissy as Siri's aunts, when they are, in fact, his cousins. I've already edited it in previous chapters, please forgive me!

Sirius met the morning with dryness in his mouth, a raging headache and Kingsley’s lynx patronus beckoning him awake. He threw a pillow at the pearly shape before rolling off his bed, cursing the day he had decided that he needed a regular job and responsibilities. The flat he had rented after graduating was located right in the middle of muggle London, not too far from the Ministry. At the time, Lily had secretly aided him with the paperwork, scouting potential locations in muggle papers.

Located on the third floor of a renovated mid-century building, the living space had always been treated more as a simple space to crash between work shifts, thus lacking in personality and resources. Whenever he needed a cup or a towel, Sirius would usually transfigure whatever laid around for a while, proud of his lack of attachments. The few possessions he pointedly displayed could be classified generally under three categories: books and magical instruments useful in his auror duties, clothes and booze. 

There was also a big, black and sleek motorcycle, parked outside and disguised under several charms to make it unnoticeable and immune to robbery and exposure damage. Moony would regularly poke fun at his “eternal midlife crisis” living situation, and Sirius knew that he was old enough and had sufficient means to build a real life for himself. Still, something anchored him to an constant state of non-being, to the point where every attempt his friends made at helping his living space feel more home-like was met with rebellion.

Since last year there was also the pending issue of his inheritance, made clear by the confirmation of his brother’s death, but until very recently Sirius had the optimal excuse of having a war to worry about, allowing him to stall and push any decision-making to the back of his head. Once in a while he would receive an owl from Gringotts with investment reports and transaction requests, which he always signed without giving it much of a thought. 

But things were changing now, and the reflection that gazed back at Sirius in the mirror was partially proof of that. His hair had grown past his shoulder blades already, strands hanging sad and loose around his face. He was also skinnier, paler and more sullen than he had remembered, reminding him of how Remus used to look like in the full moon aftermath. 

He used a spell to shave before showering hastily, his hair still dripping as he dressed in his auror robes, which now hung loose on his protruding collarbones and bony shoulders. He remembered faintly of the last real meal he’s had (a bowl of stew and crusty bread) and considered stopping somewhere for a real breakfast. But the idea of interrogating Death Eaters with a full belly revolted him, and he opted for the hair-of-the-dog option of irish coffee and a couple of fags to get his blood pumping.

Half an hour later, hair spelled dry and grimy soot on his boots, he arrived at the Ministry. Luckily, it seemed like every witch or wizard he encountered on his way to the second floor was also suffering the after effects of celebrating the end of war with great enthusiasm, erasing the need for polite smalltalk in the crowded lift. 

Kingsley was there already, looking sharp as always. He was having a conversation with Williamson and Savage by the door which led to the Temporary Detention Center, and beckoned Sirius to come closer as soon as he entered the Auror Office.

“Morning. Looking rough.” The older Auror noted as Sirius mumbled greetings to everyone. “Moody’s down there already, with Robards and Dawlish. Working on the Carrows twins. You and I are in charge of Rodolphus Lestrange.” Sirius knew better than protest, despite having no real desire to meet the husband of his late deranged cousin.

“Let's go, then. The sooner we get to it, the better.” Kingsley nodded in agreement, and they both worked their way through the long corridor of holding cells and interrogation rooms. Rufus Scrimgeour had allocated Lestrange to the fourth door on their left, where the Death Eater awaited for them in his shackles.

They entered the room in silence and sat at the table, Kingsley pulling a sneakoscope and a vial of veritaserum out of his purple robes before inviting Lestrange to sit with them. The man looked pale and sulky, stubborn in his determination not to look at the two aurors. He ignored Shacklebolt’s greetings, addressing Sirius instead.

“Ahh, it’s the Black blood-traitor. Came to gloat?” Rodolphus spat on the floor in Sirius’s direction. “Looking so smug after killing your poor cousin using dark magic.” He cackled, finally facing the aurors direction. “Such high quality blood, wasted on a life licking boots.” He moved like a wild cat now, pacing around the interrogation room.

“At least I’ve never prostrated myself before a pathetic excuse for a Dark Lord, cousin dearest.” Sirius remarked bitterly, playing with his wand. He knew there was a reason for him to have been paired with Kingsley for this specific task. There weren’t many people in the world capable of getting under Rodolphus’s skin. “Tell me, Lestrange, did it ever bother you? Being eternally second in your wife’s heart?”

The Death Eater’s grin grew wider, red tongue darting out to moisten cracked lips. “No love is comparable to that of the Dark Lord. Bella knew she was second in my heart as well.” He finally sat at the table, chains rattling noisily against the wooden top. “What do you know about love, anyway, boy?”

Sirius felt Kingsley’s gaze scrutinizing him as he struggled to retort. “I did not come here to discuss sentiments, Lestrange. We need information and you’re gonna give it to us. Trust me, I would _love_ nothing more than to mash you into a pulp, but, alas, as you’ve expressed so eloquently-” Black leaned across the table, eyes trained on Rodolphus’s “- I am a boot licker. So be a good boy and answer my colleague’s questions, or I’ll have to make you choke on some Veritaserum.”

Rodolphus growled lowly, snapping his teeth. Kingsley began drilling him with questions about Voldemort’s inner circle, his plans and active targets, but the answers were vague and unwilling. After several attempts Shacklebolt had lost his patience, finally authorizing the administration of the truth potion. 

‘You’ll regret this, Black.” The Death Eater hissed when Sirius approached him with the vial, and was rewarded with a slap. His mouth was forced open with a spell, and he gulped the water-like liquid placidly, eyes closed and breath hitched. “Is your name Rodolphus Lestrange?” Kingsley began, listing a series of simple questions to ease the prisoner into spilling the truth.

At first, it all went smoothly. Lestrange appeared to be almost serene, and Sirius sat back, satisfied with letting his senior lead the interrogation. “What happened to Pettigrew? We found his body in the Manor.” Black scoffed at that. Peter’s sense of self-preservation above all else had long opened a chasm between the two of them, and the absence of James’s charisma stitching them together only solidified their divide.

Rodolphus, to his surprise, appeared perplexed at that. “The rat is dead? Pity. Wasn’t me.” He fixed his eyes on Sirius, his smile unwavering. “I remember the day he came crawling and whimpering, pleading the Dark Lord for mercy. He was so eager to tell us everything we needed to know, such a naughty boy he was. But I bet you knew about that already, cousin.”

Sirius bit his lip, ignoring the strong urge to curse the man facing him. “So Peter was your informant?” Kingsley continued the line of questioning calmly.

Instead of an answer, a trickle of blood spilled from Lestrange’s mouth, and Sirius felt the table vibrating with magic. The Death Eater began laughing, the sound quickly drowning as blood kept pouring steadily out of his mouth, then nose and ears. Kingsley jumped on his feet, commanding Sirius to start the diagnosis and healing procedure, but the Black heir was frozen to his seat. 

“...runes.” He whispered “He used blood runes to protect himself.” He watched numbly as Shacklebot tried, to no end, casting a blood-curdling spell, then a general healing spell. “He’s going to die, there’s nothing we can do.” But Kingsley wasn’t listening, and kept on trying, before sending out his patronus to fetch a curse specialist.

Sirius’s mouth was completely dry, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Rodolphus. He was aware of the kind of dark magic used to carve bloodrunes into one’s skin. Had read all about it in the Black family library. Had started covering himself and his wand in it as soon as he ran away from home. It was binding magic. Fate. 

When Rufus Scrimgeour barged into the interrogation room, Rodolphus Lestrange was already dead, his cooling body laid soaked in the pool of his own blood.

Twenty minutes and a long sequence of cleaning spells later, Sirius found himself in Scrimgeour’s office. The Head of the Aurors scrutinized him silently, while Black studied the big grandfather clock stationed in the back. 

“Auror Black, your file mentions many of your qualities. Steadfast. Efficient. Masterful spellwork. Deep knowledge of the Dark Arts, and yet a profound disgust for anything connected to them.” The lion-headed auror punctuated his phrases with a tap of his index finger against a thick parchment binder with Sirius’s name on it. 

“Auror Scrimgeour, sir-” Sirius felt small, diminished by what he had witnessed. His shaking fingers were rubbing his knuckles nervously, pads running the outline of tattoed runes. “I was familiar with the curse. He probably has a blood rune somewhere on his body, set to be triggered upon a specific event.” He paused, his mind coming back to the threat Lestrange had uttered in the interrogation chamber. “Once the curse is set in motion there isn’t much to be done.”

The Head Auror’s brows were knit together, the hard line of his mouth set into a displeased expression. “You seem to know quite well about them. Is it from personal experience, I wonder?” He circled around Sirius, retrieving a piece of parchment out of his robe, movements slow and deliberate. “Your family is quite famous for its familiarity with black magic. Most ancient and noble, they say.”

“I ran away from them at sixteen, sir. The sins of my kin are not my own. You ought to know that.” 

_You only had a clean slate as far as I was willing to vouch for you, Pads. You’ve always known that._

_You've been m_ _arked from birth._

Rufus placed a hand on his shoulder, fingers digging into bony flesh. “You’ve always been a show-off, haven’t you, Black? So eager to prove your loyalty to others.” His tone was cold and mocking, and Sirius felt a trickle of sweat trace his spine. “You know, when you ran off in the middle of December on some task I wondered whether your loyalty had vanished with Potter’s death.”

_He’s not wrong, Pads. Look at you, darkness etched into your whole being._

_I’m not on His side._

_No. You aren’t on anyone’s side. You’re a walking corpse._

“I have loyalty to my duty as auror, sir.” Sirius muttered stubbornly. Scrimgeour let go of him and sat back on his leather-bound chair, placing the parchment on top of the desk between them. “Care to explain, then, why you didn’t think it was important to mention to anyone that you can’t perform defensive or healing spells anymore?”

Shit.

The parchment had the official lime-green seal of Mungo’s. Janus Thickey Ward. Healer Glassby’s signature. 

“You know, a week earlier I would let this slide. We were at war, and you’re a skilled wizard, and every wand on our side counted. But this Department can’t afford to host dubious behaviour anymore.” Bile was rising to Sirius’s throat, the world around him growing colder.

“Sirius Black, you’re officially dismissed from your position as Junior Auror. Please return your badge and vacate your cubicle by the end of the day.”

Sirius turned to his side and puked all over Rufus Scrimgeour’s carpet.


	5. Hair of the Dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back at Hogwarts.

“ _ Silencio! _ ” Alastor’s spell hit Sirius right as he was about to say something clever about desecrating the Head Auror office. 

His mentor intercepted him just as he was heading out of the Department, and told him in a hurry that he would meet Sirius at the Hog's Head after seven. Apparently a few other Order members were supposed to arrive in Hogsmeade the night before the memorial service was scheduled, to have a celebration of their own.

He hadn’t taken much time at all clearing out his cubicle, and he threw a general “goodbye” to the aurors which were hanging around at that time. Twenty minutes after being sacked, Sirius flooed back to his apartment, adrenaline still pumping in his veins. It all had been very intense, and he hadn’t had enough time to process what it all meant. 

Still, he was twitchy and angry, shock still settling in, and there was no use in waiting around to floo to Hogsmeade at the designated time. So, he shedded his auror robes, kicking them promptly under his bed, and put on a dragonskin cloak instead, gifted by his late uncle Alphard. The supple leather carried a heavy scent of tobacco and seasalt. Memories of his last birthday. 

For a quick moment he considered visiting Longbottom at Mungo’s. His gut twisted in guilt, but he decided against it, figuring that he wouldn’t be able to be a well-behaved visitor at that moment anyway. Instead, he walked out onto the street and took a look around before straddling his motorcycle.

It was just after noon, the day cloudy and windy, muggles wrapping themselves in thick scarves as he drove past them, out of the city and onto a large freeway ahead. It was a long drive to the Scottish Highlands, but for the first time since forever Sirius had plenty of time to waste. Maybe he’d even fly for a stretch of his way there, just to feel the electricity of the atmosphere prickling his windswept face. 

When he had first gotten his bike, right after graduating, he channeled all of his frustrations into inbedding the maximum amount of magic into each piece of the chromed engine. The purchase had been motivated by an off-hand comment James had made a couple of years prior, saying that this particular mode of muggle transportation was “bloody cool, almost as cool as flying”

By the time he was finished tinkering with it, however, James and he had begun their Auror training, Prongs had a wedding looming on the horizon, and they began seeing murders and disappearances on the front page of the Prophet every morning.

Sirius cried a bit halfway through his ride, the road-induced trance making his thoughts float freely through his mind. The wind carried his tears away as the landscapes around him slowly began to change to reflect the severity of the northern terrain. There was a small snowstorm underway, and he used the impaired road visibility to press the invisibility button, pull the lever and soar above the surrounding hills.

It was a bit like riding on the Hogwarts Express after the Christmas hols at the Potter Manor, so much so that if he tried hard enough he could see the train tracks in the ground not too far away, serpentining through the collection of snowy valleys. The sun went away soon, gray skies darkening above him, as he used the compass spell to navigate.

Despite his efforts to arrive on time, he still was half an hour late by the time he wheeled into the Hogsmeade village, parking his bike outside of the grimy tavern, under the wild boar head sign, spelling the vehicle to protect it from the snow before heading inside.

Moody was sharing a table with Hagrid and Dedalus Diggle, whose mauve top hat occupied a seat of its own. “Hey” He greeted, pulling a chair and sitting opposite of Alastor, who scrutinized him without a word. There was a bottle of Schletters on the table, and Sirius’s mouth felt suddenly dry and papery. “Fancy seeing you lads here.” He tried with a tired grin, but there was an uncomfortable silence poisoning the air.

“So I figured out the most brilliant way of getting fired today-” He began, pouring himself a two-finger. The Head was quiet, Aberforth talking to a couple of drunkards by the bar, an old bookie sitting in the corner, taking notes between sips of beer. Moody’s silencing charm worked like a slap in the face.

“You’ve always been an arrogant prick, Black, but I thought you were at least a smart one.” The old auror commented, wand still trained on Sirius’s face. “This is no laughing matter.” Next to him, the groundskeeper nursed his glass with a heavy expression. Diggle’s serene expression wore a gentle smile as he addressed him.

“Sirius, the Ministry is undergoing change. Alastor’s right, you getting sacked is only the first of many symptoms.” His voice bore the signs of tiredness , and there was a raspy quality to it, as if he had spent a few hours yelling. 

“Kingsley was summoned to the Minister’s office after you left.” Moody continued, lifting the silencing charm. “And Scrimgeour suggested that I should take a leave to recover. Everybody is getting sidelined, you just came with a convenient excuse.” Sirius pulled the carton of cigarettes out of his pocket and inhaled the smoke deeply, relishing in the slight burn to his esophagus. 

“So what, have the Ministry decided that they don’t need the DMLE anymore, just because the war is supposedly over?” He asked after a long gulp from his cup. 

“Not the DMLE, but the Order.” Diggle lowered his voice, glancing around the tavern.

It took two more cigarettes for Sirius to digest this information. Hagrid was sharing details of the set of thestral fowls he had delivered the night before when Moody poured them all another round. “See, lad, when a war is over the winning side share the spoils. And the Ministry isn’t very used to sharing.”

“Is that why the Prophet is calling us vigilantes?” Sirius asked with a hollow voice. Hagrid hiccuped loudly and gave him a sympathetic smile. “Well, it sounds to me like a great reason to switch my subscription to Witch Weekly instead. Only if they accept my application to be their Monthly Magic Muse, though, or I’ll be forced to read the Quibbler.”

His joke fell flat, and there was still a heavy trace of mournful dejection permeating the space around them, so they kept drinking on, listening to Hagrid’s babbling about his plans to go to a dragon sanctuary in Wales in the spring. Sirius was drunk, wallowing in self-pity, and was quickly convinced to fill his belly with Aberforth’s questionable goat stew, before being escorted by Dedalus to one of the rooms on the floor above.

“Rest, we’ll go to Hogwarts for breakfast tomorrow. Get some rest or Poppy Pomfrey will permanently stick your ass to a bed in the Hospital Wing as soon as she sees you.” His threat seemed menacing enough, and Sirius dropped obediently onto the wonky bed, kicking his boots off.

_ You’re pathetic, Pads. _

_ Shutupshutupshutup _

He definitely had one drink too many. The room around him was spinning, but he couldn’t sleep. It had been a while since his last Hogsmeade visit. Last time he had come to the village with Remus, getting sloppily drunk. It had been a miserable, rainy day in early fall, and he and his friend were making plans for the next full moon. Stupidly, Sirius dragged Lupin to Madam Puddifoot for a cup of creamy, rich hot chocolate after the werewolf complained about the shitty weather.

_ He was so  _ easy _ back then, Pads. Our Moony, almost as needy as you. _

_ He was sweet. We needed each other. _

_ He was always so cute, so forgiving, so hungry for every crumb of affection. Don’t you feel like a shit friend, Padfoot? You couldn’t even get there on time. _

Sirius turned into a dog and buried himself under the tartan quilt, escaping the merciless moon outside of his window.

The next day, after sharing a quick breakfast of Pepper Up and Aberforth’s mulled wine, he and Moody headed up to Hogwarts Castle on foot. Contrasting to yesterday’s gloomy skies, today the morning came with soft sunbeams glittering on fresh snow. The powdery flakes crinkled satisfyingly under their shoes while Sirius took in their surroundings slowly, focused on not letting the sudden surge of nostalgia turn him into sentimental mush.

It was a mammoth task, it seemed, especially since every tree, every stone on their way up had a memory associated with it. By the time they had approached the castle, spotting Hagrid rushing towards them in the distance, Sirius had furtively wiped his eyes thrice.

Still, in the absence of students, whose school year had been suspended since june of last year, the school building seemed lonelier and colder. They stepped into the Great Hall, where the Professors table had been extended to allow for extra seats. Dumbledore was absent, but some of the teachers were there. 

In addition to McGonagall and Sprout, who sat opposite of Flitwic and Slughorn, Pomfrey, Hooch and Kettleburn composed the staff, diluted by other familiar faces: Vance and Diggle occupied the space next to the Charms professor, Mundungus was telling a joke to the Potions Master and Shacklebolt smiled at him in greetings, gesturing to a free seat between him and the Transfiguration specialist.

There was also a couple of vibrantly-haired gingers, no doubt the Prewett’s sister and her husband. Sirius wondered whether she had children, too. The Longbottoms were absent, since Frank was still recovering, but his latest update seemed quite optimistic. Everyone seemed to be in an odd state. There were hushed conversations and apprehensive tone.

There was also one notable absence: the Savior wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Sirius wondered whether the wizard would appear next to Dumbledore, orif he was gone for good. Once he sat down, facing Moody’s scowl, Minerva greeted him with a tight smile, asking whether they had breakfast already. 

Sirius poured himself some coffee and inquired about the Headmaster. Apparently, Dumbledore would join them any minute now. “What about that so-called Saviour kid? Is he here as well?” He asked, picking a piece of toast. At that, a strange quietude fell upon the table. Seeing his bewilderment, Kingsley lowered his head, whispering “We’ll talk about this later. He’s not here, though.”

Sirius scoffed. It’s not as if he had expected this mystery to solve itself with such ease. Still, since the topic seemed so forbidding, the Marauder decided that, if needed, he would implement every mischief possible to find out the truth. 

His train of thoughts was interrupted when Dumbledore entered the Great Hall, in maroon and golden robes, white beard even longer than Sirius had remembered from before. The old wizard sported a twinkling smirk, and he greeted everyone present at the table before taking the central seat.

“Dear friends, it is so good indeed to see you all here!” He crooned, adding sugar to his tea. There was a short whimper coming from the Prewett sister, whose freckled face was spotted with red stains from crying. “Indeed, today is the first time in a long while where we can be joyous without a shred of guilt.”

The Headmaster’s speech seemed to have a calming effect on those around him, but Sirius wasn’t about to forget his main mission. After all, finding out more about the enigmatic Saviour was his main priority there. The Memorial itself in his opinion was a mere distasteful representation of loss, an ugly reminder of finality.

The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.

James was cocky indeed for wishing to be immortalized like that. Irresistible confidence, magnetic in its pull, spiked with the inherent arrogance of being a very loved only child. And Sirius always followed, hypnotized by the scorching sun beaming from within his friend. He wondered what would James say if he knew the mess his death had made.

Remus would often look at him with chastising glances, every time he would make it clear that his obsession with James was more enduring than death itself.

Soon after he finished his tea, Dumbledore rose to his feet and invited the others to join him at the lakeshore to set the Memorial in place. While their small group began slowly pouring out of the Great Hall, Sirius felt the gaze of twinkling blue orbs piercing his back. ‘Yes, Headmaster?” He turned to face the wizard.

When he first joined the Order, Sirius would see Dumbledore often, his reassuring presence felt at almost every meeting. But then, after it became clearer that there would be no possibility of classes resuming their usual schedule in September, the Headmaster became a rare participant. In early December there was even some talk about him having been killed.

Still, Sirius couldn’t muster an ounce of distrust in Dumbledore, having seen the man tolerating even the worst of the Marauders behaviour, offering safe harbour to one of his best friends, and being generally distrustful of everything Slytherin-related made him a reverential figure in Sirius’s mind. The fact that both Lily and James were fully convinced of his utter brilliance and incorruptible goodness only heightened that impression.

“Young Mr. Black-” Dumbledore would always say his name with a poignant emphasis, as if it was a secret they shared between them. “After the rest of the guests leave, I would like to meet with you in my office. The password is cockroach clusters.”

And that was enough to lift Sirius’s spirits to the high heavens. He felt singled out, in a good way, the same way he felt when James would pull him into an alcove to whisper him a secret, hot breath dampening his earshell, producing goosebumps on his skin. Maybe Remus was right after all, and Sirius only worked properly when given instructions. “Y-yes, of course, Headmaster.”

He bowed awkwardly as Dumbledore passed by him, a bit starstruck. The feeling followed him all throughout his way towards the edge of the Great Lake. There, at an elevated stony edge, sat a tall slab of marble with words etched into the smooth surface. They all formed a semicircle around it, and as the Headmaster took his place in the center a great phoenix glided through the skies, perching itself on his shoulder. 

The beautiful bird sang and all the speeches some of them had prepared, bubbling in their throats, died out with the sound. Dumbledore was saying something about the value of bravery and the nobility of sacrifice, and Vance held the Prewett woman, her body absorbing the deep sobs. Sirius felt too overwhelmed, and still a bit tipsy, the combination of emotions too strong to reveal itself on his face. So he stood there, knee deep in snow, gaze studying the wintery surroundings, until he felt movement around himself.

It was over. He had noticed that most of those present separated themselves into smaller groups of three and four, talking in whispers and hugging each other. Moody approached him , giving his arm an almost painful squeeze. “You like it? Took me three boxes of chocolate frogs to bribe Charlotte in the Magical Statistics Department. I think I’ve listed them all, but in any case there’s room for more if any name needs to be added.”

It was then that Sirius realized that the marble slab displayed a longer list of names than expected. The epitaph read “We are only as strong as we are united, as weak as we are divided”. Under it were columns and columns of names, listed alphabetically. It took Sirius no time to locate Prongs, letters almost glowing in recognition. 

“Dumbledore asked to talk to me.” Sirius mumbled, still staring at James’s name, which looked back at him, mockingly. “Said to meet him in his office after everyone leaves.” The auror hummed in understanding. “I’ll be on my way, then. I’ll check on you sometime this week.” Moody turned away and began plowing through the snow. 

Sirius waited a bit more, heart full and swelling with anxious anticipation. 

Once he was certain that the last of the Order members was gone he walked back to the castle, sighting in relief in the response to its warmth. He rushed towards the gargoyle statue that guarded the Headmaster’s office, giving it the correct password. Clutching his fists and holding his breath he went up the stairs and found himself pinned to his place by the unmistakably piercing gaze from beneath the half-moon spectacles. 


	6. Lemon drops

Sirius has always found Dumbledore’s office to be a cozy refuge, ever since the first time he and the Marauders had been brought to the Headmaster for invading the Snakes Common Room and obliterating it with dungbombs. “Do you reckon it’s worth the headache of becoming Head of Hogwarts for this?” Peter had asked after they were sent on a month-long detention helping Filch tend to the castle. 

Yes, being Headmaster seemed to be a very sweet deal at the time. The office hadn’t changed much since he had last seen it, still filled with books, fireplace fueled by crackling logs, morning light seeping in through stained glass windows above. However the frames of the former Heads were all vacant. Dumbledore sat in his plush chair, caressing the beautiful head of his phoenix, and the old wizard looked tired.

“Young Black, it’s good that you’re here.” Albus greeted him once again, not lifting his gaze away from the bird. “Did you enjoy my small homage this morning?” Sirius shrugged, approaching the desk. He didn’t have a real opinion. 

“If I’m being honest, the whole thing is giving me whiplash. Things are happening too quickly. I don’t mean that I’m not glad the war is over, but it all seems a bit-” He slumped on a padded wooden chair and ran his fingers on the smooth mahogany of the armrests, looking for the right words to convey his feelings “A bit anticlimactic.”

The Headmaster nodded in understanding and reached for a glass bowl sitting on one of the bookshelves. “Lemon drop?” He offered, holding out the candy dish filled with yellow orbs. Sirius graciously picked one. “Yes, yes-” the wizard began circling his office in a slow pace, hands clasped behind his back. “I heard of Mr. Lupin, of course. A tragedy. I was devastated when Moody notified me. Was it you who found him?”

A deep frown etched itself on Sirius’s face. This really wasn’t the direction he had imagined their discussion would take. “I did. Came to check on him. Couldn’t get a hold of him through his floo, thought he had blocked me after a fight we had.” He bit into the lemon drop, shattering the tart sugar between his teeth. The only good thing about Moony dying was the lack of a body. Somehow it made it easier. “When I finally arrived there they had cast  _ Fiendfyre _ all over his cabin. Don’t know if he was dead already when they did it.”

“A tragedy indeed.” Dumbledore agreed. “One of too many, I’m afraid, though it is an even deeper loss when the only part alive remaining is within our hearts. Remus was a great friend, and a magnificent wizard.” A pause, with so many questions blooming and fading in rapid succession on the tip of Sirius’s tongue.

The Headmaster stopped next to the hearth, watching the flames in silence. “I don’t know what to do with myself.” Sirius confessed meekly, fingers dancing on the tabletop pattern. “I was sacked at the Ministry yesterday.” Dumbledore didn’t react, and the Marauder saw it as a sign to keep talking. “It seems like everyone else is scared that the war is over, as well. Everyone’s running around like a chicken with its head off.”

Still not turning away from the flames, Dumbledore waved his wand, conjuring two crystal goblets filled with mead. “The Ministry had long resigned themselves to the reality that Voldemort had won. That his power was absolute and there was no choice but to surrender and slowly ease into the dominion of the dark forces.” Sirius took one of the goblets, tasting the warm sweetness in it.

It was true that in the last months the amount of active missions that had been given to the aurors was slowly being reduced. Following the death of many of the DMLE personnel, the task forces began dwindling, to the point where in December most of Sirius’s days became focused solely on his Order duties. “Cowards” he spat bitterly. “Hypocritical bureaucrats who only care to save their own skin. And now they are calling us vigilantes just because we did what they couldn’t! 

Dumbledore let out a short laugh, finally turning to face him and summoning the remaining goblet to his hand. “Indeed. Weak minds tend to seek out and follow power. Now that their choices have been proven wrong, as I had told them they would, they are in a rush to cover their tracks.” The old wizard drank in silence some more.

A question had finally formed in Sirius’s mind, one that filled him with anticipation. “You said you needed to talk to me, specifically. I assume it wasn’t just because you wanted me to agree that the Ministry are rightful twats.” He felt Dumbledore studying his face carefully, before the man resumed his pacing. This time, the phoenix followed, floating gracefully above its master.

“Did you hear about how Voldemort was killed, Sirius?” He asked, reaching the top of the stairs leading to a small alcove above. The bird continued circling the office ceiling, it’s wings grazing the stone lightly. Sirius nodded. “Moody told me all about it. Well, what he had seen at least.”

Dumbledore spent some time rummaging through the shelves before descending from the alcove once more. This time, he had a long, thin sword in his hand, the ornate metal of the handle decorated with rubies the size of an egg. “This is the sword of Gryffindor.” He explained. “It’s been bathed in Basilisk venom.”

Sirius stared at the weapon in awe and reverence, watching the lints of sunlight reflecting on the smooth surface of the blade. He had heard about it in the legends that circled around the Gryffindor common room, seen it in a few paintings of the Hogwarts Founder. He lifted his arm, reaching his hand slowly in the sword’s direction to feel Godric’s name carved into the steel with the pads of his fingers.

He realized he was shaking.

“This is the sword that killed Voldemort.” Dumbledore said, retrieving it from within Sirius’s reach and setting it on top of the nearest bookshelf. “It takes exceptional Gryffindor qualities to summon and wield it. It is not, however, a once-in-a-century occurrence. I even will go so far as to say that young James Potter would have been capable of such a task, seeing as he perfectly encapsulated all of the core characters of his House.”

Sirius took no time at all to imagine James, holding the bloodied sword with a confident smirk playing on his lips, dark curls tousled by the wind. Merlin, the world would fall at his feet. 

_ Would you bring me your heart on a platter, Pads? _

_ I would not, seeing how it was in your possession already. _

“You see, to destroy an evil that went further than evil can go, no amount of pure courage will suffice.” Dumbledore continued, settling back into his chair and dropping his head back. “One also needs enough loyalty and dedication to see the task through, sufficient knowledge and wit to understand the forces at play, and the strategic cunning to carefully trace every step needed.”

The old wizard appeared to be even wearier now, long fingers woven together, resting on top of his chest, eyes glued to the domed ceiling. “The Ministry has always been quite naïve in their belief that magic is a currency that can be counted, divided, evaluated in any capacity. It is precisely why they could never understand Voldemort and his rise to power.” Sirius agreed soundly, elbow now perched on the tabletop, his attention fully on Headmaster’s speech.

“I dared to think that my years of knowledge and experience, dealing with magic of all kinds and witnessing what it is truly capable of would qualify me to lead my personal war against the evil that made Voldemort who he was. After all-” He turned to Sirius, lips pressed into a thin line of concern “I was his teacher once.”

There had been rumours, of course. That the Dark Lord had once been enrolled in Hogwarts. Seeing how most of the wizards in Britain went there at some point in their lives, it wasn’t an outlandish theory to pose. Still, this revelation had shattered the illusion that Voldemort was a being so ancient and enduring that it could only have been Salazar Slytherin reincarnated. As it stood, however, he couldn’t have been much older than uncle Alphard. 

Once a human of flesh and blood.

Sirius’s face must have been distorted into an expression of distraught, because Dumbledore chuckled and reached for another lemon drop. “Yes, yes. Tom Riddle, that was his real name. An extraordinary student, of course. Endless thirst for knowledge and power. Very charismatic as well. I will always carry the guilt of not seeing it earlier, the corruption poisoning his heart.” The Headmaster’s voice was quiet now, dripping with sadness.

“I’m telling you this, Sirius, so you can understand why it was possible for Tom to reach the heights he did. He was smart, too. Hid his secrets so well that I could never trace the mystery.” Black shivered. He remembered how, following the announcement that Hogwarts had closed its doors last year, there were many who were convinced that all hope was lost. Soon after that he began noticing reclusiveness in Pettigrew, which he dismissed as an expression of grief.

“Magic works in ways we rarely are capable of comprehending, Sirius. It still surprises me every day, the small miracles we are able to perform with a flick of our wands.” As if to illustrate that, Dumbledore aimed his wand on the lemon drops, transfiguring them into a small sapling of a lemon tree. “It is precisely because of the puzzling nature of magic that I chose to not question too much the day when a young man just walked into this Castle last year, demanding that I would speak to him.”

The Marauder perked up at that. Albus’s voice was filled with careful consideration, as if he was sculpting his words from a very brittle material. “The young man in question presented himself as Harry, no surname. He seemed to know me and the castle better than the palm of his own hand, and yet I had never seen him in my life.” The unease in the Headmaster’s words was mixed with a tinge of amusement. “Indeed, a great puzzle he was.”

The lemon sapling was transfigured back into candy, and Dumbledore took a piece before continuing. “He allowed me to investigate him further, of course. He wanted to make sure I believed in the veracity of his words, even though he was very vague about his identity. Still, I was able to verify that he wasn’t a liar, was not in disguise and had no ill intentions towards me or my staff. I asked him to stay in the castle a bit longer, delighted by this arcane occurrence.”

With a flick of the Headmaster’s wand, a large wooden crate appeared on the table, the lid secured with a complex lock. “A few days after his arrival he asked for another audience with me, during which he asked me to accompany him into the second floor ladies' lavatory.”

“The Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom?” Sirius shuddered, remembering the time he and Peter had to venture there to register the spot on the Marauders Map. The ghost who inhabited it had been insufferable to them, following them for a month in every restroom they went out of spite.

“Precisely. Are you familiar with the legend of the Chamber of Secrets?” Sirius nodded. Being familiar with Salazar Slytherin was part of every Black descendant. “Harry showed me the entrance to the Chamber, which apparently had been located in that very lavatory, hidden behind a sink, which could only be unlocked by a Parselmouth.”

“Merlin's beard!” Sirius exclaimed, enthralled by the recount.

“I, too, was quite bewildered when Harry managed to open the secret passageway and invited me to join him, descending into the Chamber and leading me towards the carcass of an enormous basilisk.” With that, Dumbledore pointed his wand at the crate, opening the lid and demonstrating its contents. A pair of ivory razor sharp fangs the size of Sirius’s forearm resided inside, along with a piece of dicarted scaly hide and a few vials filled with liquids of different colors. Sirius studied every item with reverence.

“According to Harry, he had killed the monster just a few hours prior. When I questioned him about it, he informed me that he was informed about the existence of the Chamber and its primary resident by a piece of Tom Riddle’s soul.” Sirius flinched and locked his gaze with Dumbledore, a part of him wondering whether he had finally lost his mind completely.

The Headmaster chuckled at his utter bewilderment and shut the lid of the crate. “The truth is often wilder than even the most exquisite product of our imagination.” The old wizard had a twinkle in his eyes as he spoke “You see, Sirius, Harry killed the basilisk in order to collect its venom, which is one of the very few things capable of destroying a Horcrux. Are you familiar with this kind of magic?”

Sirius shook his head. The word wasn’t fully foreign to him, as he was sure he had encountered the term in a book at some point in time. “A Horcrux is a product of ancient dark magic, designed to split a piece of one’s soul, trapping it within an object, thus making its owner immortal.” 

“Did Voldemort create one?” The idea was revolting, unnatural and vile, producing a shudder that resonated deep in his bones. 

To his horror, Dumbledore acquiesced, further explaining “He succeeded in creating five before his ultimate demise.”

“But then… how?” Sirius trailed, waving his hands around in an attempt to convey a question that didn’t dare to escape his lips.

“Harry told me about the location of every one of the existing Horcruxes. After the destruction of the one located here in Hogwarts, we spent the rest of the summer carefully planning the eradication of the remaining four. As you may imagine, it was not an easy task.” Dumbledore stood once again, fetching a blue velvet box from one of the cabinets on the opposite side of the office. Sirius was feeling dizzy, fighting himself to control his urge to smoke, despite his trembling hands.

The velvet box contained an old tiara, cracked in half by an unknown force. “This is the diadem once owned by Rowena Ravenclaw. Tom made it into his Horcrux, and hid it within Hogwarts. Harry destroyed it using the sword of Gryffindor, drenched in basilisk venom.” Sirius felt himself pushing his back against the chair he sat on, his body involuntarily distancing itself from the jewel, despite it looking like an old, broken thing now.

“One by one we located each artifact, destroying it and leaving a decoy in place whenever needed, so that their absence wouldn’t be felt too soon. Dare I say, I am in a way proud of the plan we were able to craft.” With a silent laugh, the Headmaster sat on the edge of the table, towering above Sirius, his eyes pinning him to the spot.

If James was there, he would’ve probably said that it had to be the most glorious mischief ever achieved. But right now, Sirius didn’t feel able to be cocky about it. He couldn’t fathom the pressure of taking a dive into this darkness, staking the fate of thousands on something an unknown boy coming from nowhere had told him. It had to be complete insanity, magic in its purest form. “Is that why you didn’t tell anyone?”

Dumbledore agreed. “Harry had risked it all, placing his trust in me. I couldn’t risk the involvement of a third party. For that you must forgive me.” They sat together in silence for a while, the soft crackle of the fire and the rustle of the phoenix feathers not enough to fill the void in Sirius’s mind. The man lowered his head, face buried in his palms while dark locks spilled around them like a curtain.

“Headmaster-” He muttered “You still haven’t answered my question.” Sirius did not dare lift his head as he spoke, a nasty feeling of dread dawning on him. Somehow he didn’t feel curious at all anymore, his heart thumping wildly as his mind urged him to run away, to silence the old wizard before him. He didn’t want any more truths to flood his ears. “Why am I here?” His throat swallowed the last word, which came out faded and distant.

A hand fell upon his shoulder, its weight burying him further into the chair. “You must have felt it by now, Sirius. The war isn’t over. Voldemort’s demise left exposed a wound, deep and festering. He is dead, but his ideas are not. Perhaps they will never die.” Being a member of the Black family, he had to agree. “And now that he is gone, and the power and structure he built is left unsupervised, there is a very real possibility of it being usurped by someone worse.”

Sirius could hear his own heartbeat, pulsing in his ears. Could feel a slow trickle of cold sweat descend his neck. He didn’t need any of this. He wasn’t ready. “After all-” Dumbledore’s voice seemed overwhelming now, a terrifyingly divine truth shouted from the heavens. “Harry never told me his reasons for wanting Tom Riddle dead.”

Some unknown force made Sirius lift his gaze at last. Dumbledore looked almost apologetic, his wrinkles once again deeper and the corners of his mouth tugged down by an invisible force. “After the final battle, I suggested to Harry that he should recuperate in a place of my own recommendation. Somewhere I knew he would be safe and secluded, with enough distractions to buy us all some time.”

Sirius had finally understood why Dumbledore’s story had shocked him to the core. At some point during their conversation it had dawned on him, a terrible reality he wasn’t prepared to deal with, a possibility he hadn’t considered.

Dumbledore was, at least in some capacity, fearful of the Saviour. And that was the first time Sirius had ever witnessed the Headmaster being afraid of anything. Harry was dangerous. Worse yet, this new menace was completely unknown.

“If Harry wants unlimited power over all of the wizarding Britain, he needs only to acknowledge his role publicly. The Ministry would probably line up at the first opportunity to deify him.” Sirius concluded somberly. “That is why you sent him away?”

A satisfied grin played on Dumbledore’s face at that, filling Sirius with pride. “Correct, Sirius. He is currently residing at a very special place. A retreat a friend of mine founded many years ago to serve as a club of sorts. A location where wizards all around Europe could come to, in peace, trading information, rare potion ingredients and magical objects, or simply rest far away from their responsibilities. It is very beautiful, you’ll see.”

The Marauder’s brows knit in confusion. “I will see what?” Dumbledore snickered at that, as if the answer was painfully obvious.

“The Grand Edelweiss Hotel. I need someone who Harry hasn’t met yet, someone I can place my full trust in, to go there and befriend the boy. Uncover his motives and future plans and report them to me. I need it because without knowledge I can’t plan ahead.” The professor appeared to be almost apologetic, blue eyes fixed on gray ones as he delivered the cruel proposition “Can I trust you with such a task, Sirius Black?”

_ Nonononononononono _

“You can, Professor Dumbledore.” Sirius almost bit his tongue, his response no louder than a whisper. Miraculously, the concern, guilt and grief that had weighed Dumbledore’s expression moments prior melted away at that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, writing Dumbledore isn't easy.
> 
> Thank you for all your comments and kudos, it really motivates me!


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